The Man with Two Left Feet & Other Stories - From the Manor Wodehouse Collection, a Selection from the Early Works of P. G. Wodehouse

The Man with Two Left Feet: and Other Stories (P. G. Wodehouse - Short Stories)

The Man with Two Left Feet: and Other Stories (P. G. Wodehouse)

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The Man with Two Left Feet: P. G. Wodehouse

The Man with Two Left Feet

The Essential P. G. Wodehouse Collection (96 works) [Illustrated]

Man With Two Left Feet

The Man With Two Left Feet, and Others

The Short Stories of P.G. Wodehouse

can't understand. The chances were two to one that you would berecognized. You made a pretty big splash with that little affair ofyours five years ago.'

Benyon raised his head. His hands were trembling.

'I'll tell you,' he said with a kind of savage force, which hurt kindlylittle Mr Birdsey like a blow. 'It was because I was a dead man, andsaw a chance of coming to life for a day; because I was sick of thedamned tomb I've been living in for five centuries; because I've beenaching for New York ever since I've left it--and here was a chance ofbeing back there for a few hours. I knew there was a risk. I took achance on it. Well?'

Mr Birdsey's heart was almost too full for words. He had found him atlast, the Super-Fan, the man who would go through fire and water for asight of a game of baseball. Till that moment he had been regardinghimself as the nearest approach to that dizzy eminence. He had bravedgreat perils to see this game. Even in this moment his mind would notwholly detach itself from speculation as to what his wife would say tohim when he slunk back into the fold. But what had he risked comparedwith this man Benyon? Mr Birdsey glowed. He could not restrain hissympathy and admiration. True, the man was a criminal. He had robbed abank of a hundred thousand dollars. But, after all, what was that? Theywould probably have wasted the money in foolishness. And, anyway, abank which couldn't take care of its money deserved to lose it.

Mr Birdsey felt almost a righteous glow of indignation against the NewAsiatic Bank.

He broke the silence which had followed Benyon's words with apeculiarly immoral remark:

'Well, it's lucky it's only us that's recognized you,' he said.

Waterall stared. 'Are you proposing that we should hush this thing up,Mr Birdsey?' he said coldly.

'Oh, well--'

Waterall rose and went to the telephone.

'What ate you going to do?'

'Call up Scotland Yard, of course. What did you think?'

Undoubtedly the young man was doing his duty as a citizen, yet it is tobe recorded that Mr Birdsey eyed him with unmixed horror.

'You can't! You mustn't!' he cried.

'I certainly shall.'

'But--but--this fellow came all that way to see the ball-game.'

It seemed incredible to Mr Birdsey that this aspect of the affairshould not be the one to strike everybody to the exclusion of all otheraspects.

'You can't give him up. It's too raw.'

'He's a convicted criminal.'

'He's a fan. Why, say, he's _the_ fan.'

Waterall shrugged his shoulders, and walked to the telephone. Benyonspoke.

'One moment.'

Waterall turned, and found himself looking into the muzzle of a smallpistol. He laughed.

'I expected that. Wave it about all you want'

Benyon rested his shaking hand on the edge of the table.

'I'll shoot if you move.'

'You won't. You haven't the nerve. There's nothing to you. You're justa cheap crook, and that's all. You wouldn't find the nerve to pull thattrigger in a million years.'

He took off the receiver.

'Give me Scotland Yard,' he said.

He had turned his back to Benyon. Benyon sat motionless. Then, with athud, the pistol fell to the ground. The next moment Benyon had brokendown. His face was buried in his arms, and he was a wreck of a man,sobbing like a hurt child.

Mr Birdsey was profoundly distressed. He sat tingling and helpless.This was a nightmare.

Waterall's level voice spoke at the telephone.

'Is this Scotland Yard? I am Waterall, of the _New YorkChronicle_. Is Inspector Jarvis there? Ask him to come to thephone.... Is that you, Jarvis? This is Waterall. I'm speaking from theSavoy, Mr Birdsey's rooms. Birdsey. Listen, Jarvis. There's a man herethat's wanted by the American police. Send someone here and get him.Benyon. Robbed the New Asiatic Bank in New York. Yes, you've a warrantout for him, five years old.... All right.'

He hung up the receiver. Benyon sprang to his feet. He stood, shaking,a pitiable sight. Mr Birdsey had risen with him. They stood looking atWaterall.

'You--skunk!' said Mr Birdsey.

'I'm an American citizen,' said Waterall, 'and I happen to have someidea of a citizen's duties. What is more, I'm a newspaper man, and Ihave some idea of my duty to my paper. Call me what you like, you won'talter that.'

Mr Birdsey snorted.

'You're suffering from ingrowing sentimentality, Mr Birdsey. That'swhat's the matter with you. Just because this man has escaped justicefor five years, you think he ought to be considered quit of the wholething.'

'But--but--'

'I don't.'

He took out his cigarette case. He was feeling a great deal morestrung-up and nervous than he would have had the others suspect. He hadhad a moment of very swift thinking before he had decided to treat thatugly little pistol in a spirit of contempt. Its production had givenhim a decided shock, and now he was suffering from reaction. As aconsequence, because his nerves were strained, he lit his cigarettevery languidly, very carefully, and with an offensive superiority whichwas to Mr Birdsey the last straw.

These things are matters of an instant. Only an infinitesimal fractionof time elapsed between the spectacle of Mr Birdsey, indignant butinactive, and Mr Birdsey berserk, seeing red, frankly and undisguisedlyrunning amok. The transformation took place in the space of timerequired for the lighting of a match.

Even as the match gave out its flame, Mr Birdsey sprang.

Aeons before, when the young blood ran swiftly in his veins and lifewas all before him, Mr Birdsey had played football. Once a footballer,always a potential footballer, even to the grave. Time had removed theflying tackle as a factor in Mr Birdsey's life. Wrath brought it back.He dived at young Mr Waterall's neatly trousered legs as he had divedat other legs, less neatly trousered, thirty years ago. They crashed tothe floor together; and with the crash came Mr Birdsey's shout:

'Run! Run, you fool! Run!'

And, even as he clung to his man, breathless, bruised, feeling as ifall the world had dissolved in one vast explosion of dynamite, the dooropened, banged to, and feet fled down the passage.

Mr Birdsey disentangled himself, and rose painfully. The shock hadbrought him to himself. He was no longer berserk. He was a middle-agedgentleman of high respectability who had been behaving in a verypeculiar way.

Waterall, flushed and dishevelled, glared at him speechlessly. Hegulped. 'Are you crazy?'

Mr Birdsey tested gingerly the mechanism of a leg which lay undersuspicion of being broken. Relieved, he put his foot to the groundagain. He shook his head at Waterall. He was slightly crumpled, but heachieved a manner of dignified reproof.

'You shouldn't have done it, young man. It was raw work. Oh, yes, Iknow all about that duty-of-a-citizen stuff. It doesn't go. There areexceptions to every rule, and this was one of them. When a man riskshis liberty to come and root at a ball-game, you've got to hand it tohim. He isn't a crook. He's a fan. And we exiled fans have got to sticktogether.'

Waterall was quivering with fury, disappointment, and the peculiarunpleasantness of being treated by an elderly gentleman like a sack ofcoals. He stammered with rage.

'You damned old fool, do you realize what you've done? The police willbe here in another minute.'

'Let them come.'

'But what am I to say to them? What explanation can I give? What storycan I tell them? Can't you see what a hole you've put me in?'

Something seemed to click inside Mr Birdsey's soul. It was the berserkmood vanishing and reason leaping back on to her throne. He was ablenow to think calmly, and what he thought about filled him with a suddengloom.

'Young man,' he said, 'don't worry yourself. You've got a cinch. You'veonly got to hand a story to the police. Any old tale will do for them.I'm the man with the really difficult job--I've got to square myselfwith my wife!'

BLACK FOR LUCK

He was black, but comely. Obviously in reduced circumstances, he hadnevertheless contrived to retain a certain smartness, a certainair--what the French call the _tournure_. Nor had poverty killedin him the aristocrat's instinct of personal cleanliness; for even asElizabeth caught sight of him he began to wash himself.

At the sound of her step he looked up. He did not move, but there wassuspicion in his attitude. The muscles of his back contracted, his eyesglowed like yellow lamps against black velvet, his tail switched alittle, warningly.

Elizabeth looked at him. He looked at Elizabeth. There was a pause,while he summed her up. Then he stalked towards her, and, suddenlylowering his head, drove it vigorously against her dress. He permittedher to pick him up and carry him into the hall-way, where Francis, thejanitor, stood.

'Francis,' said Elizabeth, 'does this cat belong to anyone here?'

'No, miss. That cat's a stray, that cat is. I been trying to locatethat cat's owner for days.'

Francis spent his time trying to locate things. It was the onerecreation of his eventless life. Sometimes it was a noise, sometimes alost letter, sometimes a piece of ice which had gone astray in thedumb-waiter--whatever it was, Francis tried to locate it.

'Has he been round here long, then?'

'I seen him snooping about a considerable time.'

'I shall keep him.'

'Black cats bring luck,' said Francis sententiously.

'I certainly shan't object to that,' said Elizabeth. She was feelingthat morning that a little luck would be a pleasing novelty. Things hadnot been going very well with her of late. It was not so much that theusual proportion of her manuscripts had come back with editorialcompliments from the magazine to which they had been sent--she acceptedthat as part of the game; what she did consider scurvy treatment at thehands of fate was the fact that her own pet magazine, the one to whichshe had been accustomed to fly for refuge, almost sure of awelcome--when coldly treated by all the others--had suddenly expiredwith a low gurgle for want of public support. It was like losing a kindand open-handed relative, and it made the addition of a black cat tothe household almost a necessity.

In her flat, the door closed, she watched her new ally with someanxiety. He had behaved admirably on the journey upstairs, but shewould not have been surprised, though it would have pained her, if hehad now proceeded to try to escape through the ceiling. Cats were soemotional. However, he remained calm, and, after padding silently aboutthe room for awhile, raised his head and uttered a crooning cry.

'That's right,' said Elizabeth, cordially. 'If you don't see what youwant, ask for it. The place is yours.'

She went to the ice-box, and produced milk and sardines. There wasnothing finicky or affected about her guest. He was a good trencherman,and he did not care who knew it. He concentrated himself on therestoration of his tissues with the purposeful air of one whose lastmeal is a dim memory. Elizabeth, brooding over him like a Providence,wrinkled her forehead in thought.

'Joseph,' she said at last, brightening; 'that's your name. Now settledown, and start being a mascot.'

Joseph settled down amazingly. By the end of the second day he wasconveying the impression that he was the real owner of the apartment,and that it was due to his good nature that Elizabeth was allowed therun of the place. Like most of his species, he was an autocrat. Hewaited a day to ascertain which was Elizabeth's favourite chair, thenappropriated it for his own. If Elizabeth closed a door while he was ina room, he wanted it opened so that he might go out; if she closed itwhile he was outside, he wanted it opened so that he might come in; ifshe left it open, he fussed about the draught. But the best of us haveour faults, and Elizabeth adored him in spite of his.

It was astonishing what a difference he made in her life. She was afriendly soul, and until Joseph's arrival she had had to depend forcompany mainly on the footsteps of the man in the flat across the way.Moreover, the building was an old one, and it creaked at night. Therewas a loose board in the passage which made burglar noises in the darkbehind you when you stepped on it on the way to bed; and there werefunny scratching sounds which made you jump and hold your breath.Joseph soon put a stop to all that. With Joseph around, a loose boardbecame a loose board, nothing more, and a scratching noise just a plainscratching noise.

And then one afternoon he disappeared.

Having searched the flat without finding him, Elizabeth went to thewindow, with the intention of making a bird's-eye survey of the street.She was not hopeful, for she had just come from the street, and therehad been no sign of him then.

Outside the window was a broad ledge, running the width of thebuilding. It terminated on the left, in a shallow balcony belonging tothe flat whose front door faced hers--the flat of the young man whosefootsteps she sometimes heard. She knew he was a young man, becauseFrancis had told her so. His name, James Renshaw Boyd, she had learnedfrom the same source.

On this shallow balcony, licking his fur with the tip of a crimsontongue and generally behaving as if he were in his own backyard, satJoseph.

He looked at her coldly. Worse, he looked at her as if she had been anutter stranger. Bulging with her meat and drink, he cut her dead; and,having done so, turned and walked into the next flat.

Elizabeth was a girl of spirit. Joseph might look at her as if she werea saucerful of tainted milk, but he was her cat, and she meant to gethim back. She went out and rang the bell of Mr James Renshaw Boyd'sflat.

The door was opened by a shirt-sleeved young man. He was by no means anunsightly young man. Indeed, of his type--the rough-haired,clean-shaven, square-jawed type--he was a distinctly good-looking youngman. Even though she was regarding him at the moment purely in thelight of a machine for returning strayed cats, Elizabeth noticed that.

She smiled upon him. It was not the fault of this nice-looking youngman that his sitting-room window was open; or that Joseph was anungrateful little beast who should have no fish that night.

'Would you mind letting me have my cat, please?' she said pleasantly.'He has gone into your sitting-room through the window.'

He looked faintly surprised.

'Your cat?'

'My black cat, Joseph. He is in your sitting-room.'

'I'm afraid you have come to the wrong place. I've just left mysitting-room, and the only cat there is my black cat, Reginald.'

'But I saw Joseph go in only a minute ago.'

'That was Reginald.'

For the first time, as one who examining a fair shrub abruptlydiscovers that it is a stinging-nettle, Elizabeth realized the truth.This was no innocent young man who stood before her, but the blackestcriminal known to criminologists--a stealer of other people's cats. Hermanner shot down to zero.

'May I ask how long you have had your Reginald?'

'Since four o'clock this afternoon.'

'Did he come in through the window?'

'Why, yes. Now you mention it, he did.'

'I must ask you to be good enough to give me back my cat,' saidElizabeth, icily.

He regarded her defensively.

'Assuming,' he said, 'purely for the purposes of academic argument,that your Joseph is my Reginald, couldn't we come to an agreement ofsome sort? Let me buy you another cat. A dozen cats.'

'I don't want a dozen cats. I want Joseph.'

'Fine, fat, soft cats,' he went on persuasively. 'Lovely, affectionatePersians and Angoras, and--'

'Of course, if you intend to steal Joseph--'

'These are harsh words. Any lawyer will tell you that there are specialstatutes regarding cats. To retain a stray cat is not a tort or amisdemeanour. In the celebrated test-case of Wiggins _v_. Bluebodyit was established--'

'Will you please give me back my cat?'

She stood facing him, her chin in the air and her eyes shining, and theyoung man suddenly fell a victim to conscience.

'Look here,' he said, 'I'll throw myself on your mercy. I admit the catis your cat, and that I have no right to it, and that I am just acommon sneak-thief. But consider. I had just come back from the firstrehearsal of my first play; and as I walked in at the door that catwalked in at the window. I'm as superstitious as a coon, and I feltthat to give him up would be equivalent to killing the play before everit was produced. I know it will sound absurd to you. _You_ have noidiotic superstitions. You are sane and practical. But, in thecircumstances, if you _could_ see your way to waiving yourrights--'

Before the wistfulness of his eye Elizabeth capitulated. She felt quiteovercome by the revulsion of feeling which swept through her. How shehad misjudged him! She had taken him for an ordinary soulless purloinerof cats, a snapper-up of cats at random and without reason; and all thetime he had been reluctantly compelled to the act by this deep andpraiseworthy motive. All the unselfishness and love of sacrifice innatein good women stirred within her.

'Why, of _course_ you mustn't let him go! It would mean awful badluck.'

'But how about you--'

'Never mind about me. Think of all the people who are dependent on yourplay being a success.'

The young man blinked.

'This is overwhelming,' he said.

'I had no notion why you wanted him. He was nothing to me--at least,nothing much--that is to say--well, I suppose I was rather fond ofhim--but he was not--not--'

'Vital?'

'That's just the word I wanted. He was just company, you know.'

'Haven't you many friends?'

'I haven't any friends.'

'You haven't any friends! That settles it. You must take him back.'

'I couldn't think of it.'

'Of course you must take him back at once.'

'I really couldn't.'

'You must.'

'I won't.'

'But, good gracious, how do you suppose I should feel, knowing that youwere all alone and that I had sneaked your--your ewe lamb, as it were?'

'And how do you suppose I should feel if your play failed simply forlack of a black cat?'

He started, and ran his fingers through his rough hair in anoverwrought manner.

'Solomon couldn't have solved this problem,' he said. 'How would itbe--it seems the only possible way out--if you were to retain a sort ofmanagerial right in him? Couldn't you sometimes step across and chatwith him--and me, incidentally--over here? I'm very nearly as lonesomeas you are. Chicago is my home. I hardly know a soul in New York.'

Her solitary life in the big city had forced upon Elizabeth the abilityto form instantaneous judgements on the men she met. She flashed aglance at the young man and decided in his favour.

'It's very kind of you,' she said. 'I should love to. I want to hearall about your play. I write myself, you know, in a very small way, soa successful playwright is Someone to me.'

'I wish I were a successful playwright.'

'Well, you are having the first play you have ever written produced onBroadway. That's pretty wonderful.'

''M--yes,' said the young man. It seemed to Elizabeth that he spokedoubtfully, and this modesty consolidated the favourable impression shehad formed.

* * * * *

The gods are just. For every ill which they inflict they also supply acompensation. It seems good to them that individuals in big citiesshall be lonely, but they have so arranged that, if one of theseindividuals does at last contrive to seek out and form a friendshipwith another, that friendship shall grow more swiftly than the tepidacquaintanceships of those on whom the icy touch of loneliness hasnever fallen. Within a week Elizabeth was feeling that she had knownthis James Renshaw Boyd all her life.

And yet there was a tantalizing incompleteness about his personalreminiscences. Elizabeth was one of those persons who like to begin afriendship with a full statement of their position, their previouslife, and the causes which led up to their being in this particularspot at this particular time. At their next meeting, before he had hadtime to say much on his own account, she had told him of her life inthe small Canadian town where she had passed the early part of herlife; of the rich and unexpected aunt who had sent her to college forno particular reason that anyone could ascertain except that sheenjoyed being unexpected; of the legacy from this same aunt, farsmaller than might have been hoped for, but sufficient to send agrateful Elizabeth to New York, to try her luck there; of editors,magazines, manuscripts refused or accepted, plots for stories; of lifein general, as lived down where the Arch spans Fifth Avenue and thelighted cross of the Judson shines by night on Washington Square.

Ceasing eventually, she waited for him to begin; and he did notbegin--not, that is to say, in the sense the word conveyed toElizabeth. He spoke briefly of college, still more briefly ofChicago--which city he appeared to regard with a distaste that madeLot's attitude towards the Cities of the Plain almost kindly bycomparison. Then, as if he had fulfilled the demands of the mostexacting inquisitor in the matter of personal reminiscence, he began tospeak of the play.

The only facts concerning him to which Elizabeth could really havesworn with a clear conscience at the end of the second week of theiracquaintance were that he was very poor, and that this play meanteverything to him.

The statement that it meant everything to him insinuated itself sofrequently into his conversation that it weighed on Elizabeth's mindlike a burden, and by degrees she found herself giving the play placeof honour in her thoughts over and above her own little ventures. Withthis stupendous thing hanging in the balance, it seemed almost wickedof her to devote a moment to wondering whether the editor of an eveningpaper, who had half promised to give her the entrancing post of Adviserto the Lovelorn on his journal, would fulfil that half-promise.

At an early stage in their friendship the young man had told her theplot of the piece; and if he had not unfortunately forgotten severalimportant episodes and had to leap back to them across a gulf of one ortwo acts, and if he had referred to his characters by name instead ofby such descriptions as 'the fellow who's in love with the girl--notwhat's-his-name but the other chap'--she would no doubt have got thatmental half-Nelson on it which is such a help towards the properunderstanding of a four-act comedy. As it was, his precis had left hera little vague; but she said it was perfectly splendid, and he said didshe really think so. And she said yes, she did, and they were bothhappy.

Rehearsals seemed to prey on his spirits a good deal. He attended themwith the pathetic regularity of the young dramatist, but they appearedto bring him little balm. Elizabeth generally found him steeped ingloom, and then she would postpone the recital, to which she had beenlooking forward, of whatever little triumph she might have happened towin, and devote herself to the task of cheering him up. If women werewonderful in no other way, they would be wonderful for their genius forlistening to shop instead of talking it.

Elizabeth was feeling more than a little proud of the way in which herjudgement of this young man was being justified. Life in Bohemian NewYork had left her decidedly wary of strange young men, not formallyintroduced; her faith in human nature had had to undergo muchstraining. Wolves in sheep's clothing were common objects of thewayside in her unprotected life; and perhaps her chief reason forappreciating this friendship was the feeling of safety which it gaveher.

Their relations, she told herself, were so splendidly unsentimental.There was no need for that silent defensiveness which had come to seemalmost an inevitable accompaniment to dealings with the opposite sex.James Boyd, she felt, she could trust; and it was wonderful howsoothing the reflexion was.

And that was why, when the thing happened, it so shocked and frightenedher.

It had been one of their quiet evenings. Of late they had fallen intothe habit of sitting for long periods together without speaking. But ithad differed from other quiet evenings through the fact thatElizabeth's silence hid a slight but well-defined feeling of injury.Usually she sat happy with her thoughts, but tonight she was ruffled.She had a grievance.

That afternoon the editor of the evening paper, whose angelic statusnot even a bald head and an absence of wings and harp could conceal,had definitely informed her that the man who had conducted the columnhitherto having resigned, the post of Heloise Milton, official adviserto readers troubled with affairs of the heart, was hers; and he lookedto her to justify the daring experiment of letting a woman handle soresponsible a job. Imagine how Napoleon felt after Austerlitz, pictureColonel Goethale contemplating the last spadeful of dirt from thePanama Canal, try to visualize a suburban householder who sees a floweremerging from the soil in which he has inserted a packet of guaranteedseeds, and you will have some faint conception how Elizabeth felt asthose golden words proceeded from that editor's lips. For the momentAmbition was sated. The years, rolling by, might perchance open outother vistas; but for the moment she was content.

Into James Boyd's apartment she had walked, stepping on fleecy cloudsof rapture, to tell him the great news.

She told him the great news.

He said, 'Ah!'

There are many ways of saying 'Ah!' You can put joy, amazement, raptureinto it; you can also make it sound as if it were a reply to a remarkon the weather. James Boyd made it sound just like that. His hair wasrumpled, his brow contracted, and his manner absent. The impression hegave Elizabeth was that he had barely heard her. The next moment he wasdeep in a recital of the misdemeanours of the actors now rehearsing forhis four-act comedy. The star had done this, the leading woman that,the juvenile something else. For the first time Elizabeth listenedunsympathetically.

The time came when speech failed James Boyd, and he sat back in hischair, brooding. Elizabeth, cross and wounded, sat in hers, nursingJoseph. And so, in a dim light, time flowed by.

Just how it happened she never knew. One moment, peace; the next chaos.One moment stillness; the next, Joseph hurtling through the air, allclaws and expletives, and herself caught in a clasp which shook thebreath from her.

One can dimly reconstruct James's train of thought. He is in despair;things are going badly at the theatre, and life has lost its savour.His eye, as he sits, is caught by Elizabeth's profile. It is apretty--above all, a soothing--profile. An almost painfulsentimentality sweeps over James Boyd. There she sits, his only friendin this cruel city. If you argue that there is no necessity to springat your only friend and nearly choke her, you argue soundly; the pointis well taken. But James Boyd was beyond the reach of sound argument.Much rehearsing had frayed his nerves to ribbons. One may say that hewas not responsible for his actions.

That is the case for James. Elizabeth, naturally, was not in a positionto take a wide and understanding view of it. All she knew was that Jameshad played her false, abused her trust in him. For a moment, such wasthe shock of the surprise, she was not conscious of indignation--or,indeed, of any sensation except the purely physical one ofsemi-strangulation. Then, flushed, and more bitterly angry than shecould ever have imagined herself capable of being, she began tostruggle. She tore herself away from him. Coming on top of hergrievance, this thing filled her with a sudden, very vivid hatred ofJames. At the back of her anger, feeding it, was the humiliatingthought that it was all her own fault, that by her presence there shehad invited this.

She groped her way to the door. Something was writhing and strugglinginside her, blinding her eyes, and robbing her of speech. She was onlyconscious of a desire to be alone, to be back and safe in her own home.She was aware that he was speaking, but the words did not reach her.She found the door, and pulled it open. She felt a hand on her arm, butshe shook it off. And then she was back behind her own door, alone andat liberty to contemplate at leisure the ruins of that little temple offriendship which she had built up so carefully and in which she hadbeen so happy.

The broad fact that she would never forgive him was for a while heronly coherent thought. To this succeeded the determination that shewould never forgive herself. And having thus placed beyond the pale theonly two friends she had in New York, she was free to devote herselfwithout hindrance to the task of feeling thoroughly lonely andwretched.

The shadows deepened. Across the street a sort of bubbling explosion,followed by a jerky glare that shot athwart the room, announced thelighting of the big arc-lamp on the opposite side-walk. She resentedit, being in the mood for undiluted gloom; but she had not the energyto pull down the shade and shut it out. She sat where she was, thinkingthoughts that hurt.

The door of the apartment opposite opened. There was a single ring ather bell. She did not answer it. There came another. She sat where shewas, motionless. The door closed again.

* * * * *

The days dragged by. Elizabeth lost count of time. Each day had itsduties, which ended when you went to bed; that was all she knew--exceptthat life had become very grey and very lonely, far lonelier even thanin the time when James Boyd was nothing to her but an occasional soundof footsteps.

Of James she saw nothing. It is not difficult to avoid anyone in NewYork, even when you live just across the way.

* * * * *

It was Elizabeth's first act each morning, immediately on awaking, toopen her front door and gather in whatever lay outside it. Sometimesthere would be mail; and always, unless Francis, as he sometimes did,got mixed and absent-minded, the morning milk and the morning paper.

One morning, some two weeks after that evening of which she tried notto think, Elizabeth, opening the door, found immediately outside it afolded scrap of paper. She unfolded it.

_I am just off to the theatre. Won't you wish me luck? I feel sure it is going to be a hit. Joseph is purring like a dynamo._--J.R.B.

In the early morning the brain works sluggishly. For an instantElizabeth stood looking at the words uncomprehendingly; then, with aleaping of the heart, their meaning came home to her. He must have leftthis at her door on the previous night. The play had been produced! Andsomewhere in the folded interior of the morning paper at her feet mustbe the opinion of 'One in Authority' concerning it!

Dramatic criticisms have this peculiarity, that if you are looking forthem, they burrow and hide like rabbits. They dodge behind murders;they duck behind baseball scores; they lie up snugly behind the WallStreet news. It was a full minute before Elizabeth found what shesought, and the first words she read smote her like a blow.

In that vein of delightful facetiousness which so endears him to allfollowers and perpetrators of the drama, the 'One in Authority' rentand tore James Boyd's play. He knocked James Boyd's play down, andkicked it; he jumped on it with large feet; he poured cold water on it,and chopped it into little bits. He merrily disembowelled James Boyd'splay.

Elizabeth quivered from head to foot. She caught at the door-post tosteady herself. In a flash all her resentment had gone, wiped away andannihilated like a mist before the sun. She loved him, and she knew nowthat she had always loved him.

It took her two seconds to realize that the 'One in Authority' was amiserable incompetent, incapable of recognizing merit when it wasdisplayed before him. It took her five minutes to dress. It took her aminute to run downstairs and out to the news-stand on the corner of thestreet. Here, with a lavishness which charmed and exhilarated theproprietor, she bought all the other papers which he could supply.

Moments of tragedy are best described briefly. Each of the papersnoticed the play, and each of them damned it with uncompromisingheartiness. The criticisms varied only in tone. One cursed with relishand gusto; another with a certain pity; a third with a kind of woundedsuperiority, as of one compelled against his will to speak of somethingunspeakable; but the meaning of all was the same. James Boyd's play wasa hideous failure.

Back to the house sped Elizabeth, leaving the organs of a free peopleto be gathered up, smoothed, and replaced on the stand by the now morethan ever charmed proprietor. Up the stairs she sped, and arrivingbreathlessly at James's door rang the bell.

Heavy footsteps came down the passage; crushed, disheartened footsteps;footsteps that sent a chill to Elizabeth's heart. The door opened.James Boyd stood before her, heavy-eyed and haggard. In his eyes wasdespair, and on his chin the blue growth of beard of the man from whomthe mailed fist of Fate has smitten the energy to perform his morningshave.

Behind him, littering the floor, were the morning papers; and at thesight of them Elizabeth broke down.

'Oh, Jimmy, darling!' she cried; and the next moment she was in hisarms, and for a space time stood still.

How long afterwards it was she never knew; but eventually James Boydspoke.

'If you'll marry me,' he said hoarsely, 'I don't care a hang.'

'Jimmy, darling!' said Elizabeth, 'of course I will.'

Past them, as they stood there, a black streak shot silently, anddisappeared out of the door. Joseph was leaving the sinking ship.

'Jimmy, dear, it's all right, you know. I know you will make a fortuneout of your next play, and I've heaps for us both to live on till youmake good. We can manage splendidly on my salary from the _EveningChronicle_.'

'What! Give up a real job in New York!' He blinked. 'This isn't reallyhappening. I'm dreaming.'

'But, Jimmy, are you sure you can get work in Chicago? Wouldn't it bebetter to stay on here, where all the managers are, and--'

He shook his head.

'I think it's time I told you about myself,' he said. 'Am I sure I canget work in Chicago? I am, worse luck. Darling, have you in your morematerial moments ever toyed with a Boyd's Premier Breakfast-Sausage orkept body and soul together with a slice off a Boyd's ExcelsiorHome-Cured Ham? My father makes them, and the tragedy of my life isthat he wants me to help him at it. This was my position. I loathed thefamily business as much as dad loved it. I had a notion--a fool notion,as it has turned out--that I could make good in the literary line. I'vescribbled in a sort of way ever since I was in college. When the timecame for me to join the firm, I put it to dad straight. I said, "Giveme a chance, one good, square chance, to see if the divine fire isreally there, or if somebody has just turned on the alarm as apractical joke." And we made a bargain. I had written this play, and wemade it a test-case. We fixed it up that dad should put up the money togive it a Broadway production. If it succeeded, all right; I'm theyoung Gus Thomas, and may go ahead in the literary game. If it's afizzle, off goes my coat, and I abandon pipe-dreams of literarytriumphs and start in as the guy who put the Co. in Boyd & Co. Well,events have proved that I _am_ the guy, and now I'm going to keepmy part of the bargain just as squarely as dad kept his. I know quitewell that if I refused to play fair and chose to stick on here in NewYork and try again, dad would go on staking me. That's the sort of manhe is. But I wouldn't do it for a million Broadway successes. I've hadmy chance, and I've foozled; and now I'm going back to make him happyby being a real live member of the firm. And the queer thing about itis that last night I hated the idea, and this morning, now that I'vegot you, I almost look forward to it.'

He gave a little shiver.

'And yet--I don't know. There's something rather gruesome still to mynear-artist soul in living in luxury on murdered piggies. Have you everseen them persuading a pig to play the stellar role in a Boyd PremierBreakfast-Sausage? It's pretty ghastly. They string them up by theirhind legs, and--b-r-r-r-r!'

'Jimmy,' cried the Boy Novelist, 'what do you think has happened! Ablack cat has just come into my apartment. I heard him mewing outsidethe door, and opened it, and he streaked in. And I started my new novellast night! Say, you _do_ believe this thing of black catsbringing luck, don't you?'

'Luck! My lad, grapple that cat to your soul with hoops of steel. He'sthe greatest little luck-bringer in New York. He was boarding with metill this morning.'

'Then--by Jove! I nearly forgot to ask--your play was a hit? I haven'tseen the papers yet'

'Well, when you see them, don't read the notices. It was the worstfrost Broadway has seen since Columbus's time.'

'But--I don't understand.'

'Don't worry. You don't have to. Go back and fill that cat with fish,or she'll be leaving you. I suppose you left the door open?'

'My God!' said the Boy Novelist, paling, and dashed for the door.

'Do you think Joseph _will_ bring him luck?' said Elizabeth,thoughtfully.

'It depends what sort of luck you mean. Joseph seems to work in deviousways. If I know Joseph's methods, Briggs's new novel will be rejectedby every publisher in the city; and then, when he is sitting in hisapartment, wondering which of his razors to end himself with, therewill be a ring at the bell, and in will come the most beautiful girl inthe world, and then--well, then, take it from me, he will be allright.'

'He won't mind about the novel?'

'Not in the least.'

'Not even if it means that he will have to go away and kill pigs andthings.'

'About the pig business, dear. I've noticed a slight tendency in you tolet yourself get rather morbid about it. I know they string them up bythe hind-legs, and all that sort of thing; but you must remember that apig looks at these things from a different standpoint. My belief isthat the pigs like it. Try not to think of it.'

'Very well,' said Elizabeth, dutifully.

THE ROMANCE OF AN UGLY POLICEMAN

Crossing the Thames by Chelsea Bridge, the wanderer through Londonfinds himself in pleasant Battersea. Rounding the Park, where thefemale of the species wanders with its young by the ornamental waterwhere the wild-fowl are, he comes upon a vast road. One side of this isgiven up to Nature, the other to Intellect. On the right, green treesstretch into the middle distance; on the left, endless blocks ofresidential flats. It is Battersea Park Road, the home of thecliff-dwellers.

Police-constable Plimmer's beat embraced the first quarter of a mile ofthe cliffs. It was his duty to pace in the measured fashion of theLondon policeman along the front of them, turn to the right, turn tothe left, and come back along the road which ran behind them. In thisway he was enabled to keep the king's peace over no fewer than fourblocks of mansions.

It did not require a deal of keeping. Battersea may have its toughcitizens, but they do not live in Battersea Park Road. Battersea ParkRoad's speciality is Brain, not Crime. Authors, musicians, newspapermen, actors, and artists are the inhabitants of these mansions. A childcould control them. They assault and batter nothing but pianos; theysteal nothing but ideas; they murder nobody except Chopin andBeethoven. Not through these shall an ambitious young constable achievepromotion.

At this conclusion Edward Plimmer arrived within forty-eight hours ofhis installation. He recognized the flats for what they were--just somany layers of big-brained blamelessness. And there was not even thechance of a burglary. No burglar wastes his time burgling authors.Constable Plimmer reconciled his mind to the fact that his term inBattersea must be looked on as something in the nature of a vacation.

He was not altogether sorry. At first, indeed, he found the newatmosphere soothing. His last beat had been in the heart of tempestuousWhitechapel, where his arms had ached from the incessant hauling ofwiry inebriates to the station, and his shins had revolted at the kicksshowered upon them by haughty spirits impatient of restraint. Also, oneSaturday night, three friends of a gentleman whom he was trying toinduce not to murder his wife had so wrought upon him that, when hecame out of hospital, his already homely appearance was further marredby a nose which resembled the gnarled root of a tree. All these thingshad taken from the charm of Whitechapel, and the cloistral peace ofBattersea Park Road was grateful and comforting.

And just when the unbroken calm had begun to lose its attraction anddreams of action were once more troubling him, a new interest enteredhis life; and with its coming he ceased to wish to be removed fromBattersea. He fell in love.

It happened at the back of York Mansions. Anything that ever happened,happened there; for it is at the back of these blocks of flats that thereal life is. At the front you never see anything, except an occasionaltousle-headed young man smoking a pipe; but at the back, where thecooks come out to parley with the tradesmen, there is at certain hoursof the day quite a respectable activity. Pointed dialogues aboutyesterday's eggs and the toughness of Saturday's meat are conducted_fortissimo_ between cheerful youths in the road and satiricalyoung women in print dresses, who come out of their kitchen doors on tolittle balconies. The whole thing has a pleasing Romeo and Juliettouch. Romeo rattles up in his cart. 'Sixty-four!' he cries.'Sixty-fower, sixty-fower, sixty-fow--' The kitchen door opens, andJuliet emerges. She eyes Romeo without any great show of affection.'Are you Perkins and Blissett?' she inquires coldly. Romeo admits it.'Two of them yesterday's eggs was bad.' Romeo protests. He defends hiseggs. They were fresh from the hen; he stood over her while she laidthem. Juliet listens frigidly. 'I _don't_ think,' she says. 'Well,half of sugar, one marmalade, and two of breakfast bacon,' she adds,and ends the argument. There is a rattling as of a steamer weighinganchor; the goods go up in the tradesman's lift; Juliet collects them,and exits, banging the door. The little drama is over.

Such is life at the back of York Mansions--a busy, throbbing thing.

The peace of afternoon had fallen upon the world one day towards theend of Constable Plimmer's second week of the simple life, when hisattention was attracted by a whistle. It was followed by a musical'Hi!'

Constable Plimmer looked up. On the kitchen balcony of a second-floorflat a girl was standing. As he took her in with a slow and exhaustivegaze, he was aware of strange thrills. There was something about thisgirl which excited Constable Plimmer. I do not say that she was abeauty; I do not claim that you or I would have raved about her; Imerely say that Constable Plimmer thought she was All Right.

'Miss?' he said.

'Got the time about you?' said the girl. 'All the clocks have stopped.'

The girl was inclined for conversation. It was that gracious hour ofthe day when you have cleared lunch and haven't got to think of dinneryet, and have a bit of time to draw a breath or two. She leaned overthe balcony and smiled pleasantly.

'If you want to know the time, ask a pleeceman,' she said. 'You been onthis beat long?'

'Just short of two weeks, miss.'

'I been here three days.'

'I hope you like it, miss.'

'So-so. The milkman's a nice boy.'

Constable Plimmer did not reply. He was busy silently hating themilkman. He knew him--one of those good-looking blighters; one of thoseoiled and curled perishers; one of those blooming fascinators who goabout the world making things hard for ugly, honest men with lovinghearts. Oh, yes, he knew the milkman.

'He's a rare one with his jokes,' said the girl.

Constable Plimmer went on not replying. He was perfectly aware that themilkman was a rare one with his jokes. He had heard him. The way girlsfell for anyone with the gift of the gab--that was what embitteredConstable Plimmer.

Little Pansy-Face! And you couldn't arrest him for it! What a world!Constable Plimmer paced upon his way, a blue-clad volcano.

It is a terrible thing to be obsessed by a milkman. To ConstablePlimmer's disordered imagination it seemed that, dating from thisinterview, the world became one solid milkman. Wherever he went, heseemed to run into this milkman. If he was in the front road, thismilkman--Alf Brooks, it appeared, was his loathsome name--came rattlingpast with his jingling cans as if he were Apollo driving his chariot.If he was round at the back, there was Alf, his damned tenor doingduets with the balconies. And all this in defiance of the known law ofnatural history that milkmen do not come out after five in the morning.This irritated Constable Plimmer. You talk of a man 'going home withthe milk' when you mean that he sneaks in in the small hours of themorning. If all milkmen were like Alf Brooks the phrase wasmeaningless.

He brooded. The unfairness of Fate was souring him. A man expectstrouble in his affairs of the heart from soldiers and sailors, and tobe cut out by even a postman is to fall before a worthy foe; butmilkmen--no! Only grocers' assistants and telegraph-boys were intendedby Providence to fear milkmen.

Yet here was Alf Brooks, contrary to all rules, the established pet ofthe mansions. Bright eyes shone from balconies when his 'Milk--oo--oo'sounded. Golden voices giggled delightedly at his bellowed chaff. AndEllen Brown, whom he called Little Pansy-Face, was definitely in lovewith him.

They were keeping company. They were walking out. This crushing truthEdward Plimmer learned from Ellen herself.

She had slipped out to mail a letter at the pillar-box on the corner,and she reached it just as the policeman arrived there in the course ofhis patrol.

Nervousness impelled Constable Plimmer to be arch.

''Ullo, 'ullo, 'ullo,' he said. 'Posting love-letters?'

'What, me? This is to the Police Commissioner, telling him you're nogood.'

'I'll give it to him. Him and me are taking supper tonight.'

Nature had never intended Constable Plimmer to be playful. He was athis worst when he rollicked. He snatched at the letter with what wasmeant to be a debonair gaiety, and only succeeded in looking like anangry gorilla. The girl uttered a startled squeak.

The letter was addressed to Mr A. Brooks.

Playfulness, after this, was at a discount. The girl was frightened andangry, and he was scowling with mingled jealousy and dismay.

'Ho!' he said. 'Ho! Mr A. Brooks!'

Ellen Brown was a nice girl, but she had a temper, and there weremoments when her manners lacked rather noticeably the repose whichstamps the caste of Vere de Vere.

'Well, what about it?' she cried. 'Can't one write to the younggentleman one's keeping company with, without having to get permissionfrom every--' She paused to marshal her forces from the assault.'Without having to get permission from every great, ugly, red-facedcopper with big feet and a broken nose in London?'

Constable Plimmer's wrath faded into a dull unhappiness. Yes, she wasright. That was the correct description. That was how an impartialScotland Yard would be compelled to describe him, if ever he got lost.'Missing. A great, ugly, red-faced copper with big feet and a brokennose.' They would never find him otherwise.

'Perhaps you object to my walking out with Alf? Perhaps you've gotsomething against him? I suppose you're jealous!'

She threw in the last suggestion entirely in a sporting spirit. Sheloved battle, and she had a feeling that this one was going to finishfar too quickly. To prolong it, she gave him this opening. There were adozen ways in which he might answer, each more insulting than the last;and then, when he had finished, she could begin again. These littleencounters, she held, sharpened the wits, stimulated the circulation,and kept one out in the open air.

'Yes,' said Constable Plimmer.

It was the one reply she was not expecting. For direct abuse, forsarcasm, for dignity, for almost any speech beginning, 'What I Jealousof you. Why--' she was prepared. But this was incredible. It disabledher, as the wild thrust of an unskilled fencer will disable a master ofthe rapier. She searched in her mind and found that she had nothing tosay.

There was a tense moment in which she found him, looking her in theeyes, strangely less ugly than she had supposed, and then he was gone,rolling along on his beat with that air which all policemen mustachieve, of having no feelings at all, and--as long as it behavesitself--no interest in the human race.

Ellen posted her letter. She dropped it into the box thoughtfully, andthoughtfully returned to the flat. She looked over her shoulder, butConstable Plimmer was out of sight.

Peaceful Battersea began to vex Constable Plimmer. To a man crossed inlove, action is the one anodyne; and Battersea gave no scope foraction. He dreamed now of the old Whitechapel days as a man dreams ofthe joys of his childhood. He reflected bitterly that a fellow neverknows when he is well off in this world. Any one of those myriad drunkand disorderlies would have been as balm to him now. He was like a manwho has run through a fortune and in poverty eats the bread of regret.Amazedly he recollected that in those happy days he had grumbled at hislot. He remembered confiding to a friend in the station-house, as herubbed with liniment the spot on his right shin where the well-shodfoot of a joyous costermonger had got home, that this sort ofthing--meaning militant costermongers--was 'a bit too thick'. A bit toothick! Why, he would pay one to kick him now. And as for the threeloyal friends of the would-be wife-murderer who had broken his nose, ifhe saw them coming round the corner he would welcome them as brothers.

And Battersea Park Road dozed on--calm, intellectual, law-abiding.

A friend of his told him that there had once been a murder in one ofthese flats. He did not believe it. If any of these white-corpuscledclams ever swatted a fly, it was much as they could do. The thing wasridiculous on the face of it. If they were capable of murder, theywould have murdered Alf Brooks.

He stood in the road, and looked up at the placid buildingsresentfully.

'Grr-rr-rr!' he growled, and kicked the side-walk.

And, even as he spoke, on the balcony of a second-floor flat thereappeared a woman, an elderly, sharp-faced woman, who waved her arms andscreamed, 'Policeman! Officer! Come up here! Come up here at once!'

Up the stone stairs went Constable Plimmer at the run. His mind wasalert and questioning. Murder? Hardly murder, perhaps. If it had beenthat, the woman would have said so. She did not look the sort of womanwho would be reticent about a thing like that. Well, anyway, it wassomething; and Edward Plimmer had been long enough in Battersea to bethankful for small favours. An intoxicated husband would be better thannothing. At least he would be something that a fellow could get hishands on to and throw about a bit.

The sharp-faced woman was waiting for him at the door. He followed herinto the flat.

'What is it, ma'am?'

'Theft! Our cook has been stealing!'

She seemed sufficiently excited about it, but Constable Plimmer feltonly depression and disappointment. A stout admirer of the sex, hehated arresting women. Moreover, to a man in the mood to tackleanarchists with bombs, to be confronted with petty theft is galling.But duty was duty. He produced his notebook.

'She is in her room. I locked her in. I know she has taken my brooch.We have missed money. You must search her.'

'Can't do that, ma'am. Female searcher at the station.'

'Well, you can search her box.'

A little, bald, nervous man in spectacles appeared as if out of a trap.As a matter of fact, he had been there all the time, standing by thebookcase; but he was one of those men you do not notice till they moveand speak.

'Er--Jane.'

'Well, Henry?'

The little man seemed to swallow something.

'I--I think that you may possibly be wronging Ellen. It is justpossible, as regards the money--' He smiled in a ghastly manner andturned to the policeman. 'Er--officer, I ought to tell you that mywife--ah--holds the purse-strings of our little home; and it is justpossible that in an absent-minded moment _I_ may have--'

'Do you mean to tell me, Henry, that _you_ have been taking mymoney?'

'My dear, it is just possible that in the abs--'

'How often?'

He wavered perceptibly. Conscience was beginning to lose its grip.

'Oh, not often.'

'How often? More than once?'

Conscience had shot its bolt. The little man gave up the Struggle.

'No, no, not more than once. Certainly not more than once.'

'You ought not to have done it at all. We will talk about that later.It doesn't alter the fact that Ellen is a thief. I have missed moneyhalf a dozen times. Besides that, there's the brooch. Step this way,officer.'

Constable Plimmer stepped that way--his face a mask. He knew who waswaiting for them behind the locked door at the end of the passage. Butit was his duty to look as if he were stuffed, and he did so.

* * * * *

She was sitting on her bed, dressed for the street. It was herafternoon out, the sharp-faced woman had informed Constable Plimmer,attributing the fact that she had discovered the loss of the brooch intime to stop her a direct interposition of Providence. She was pale,and there was a hunted look in her eyes.

'You wicked girl, where is my brooch?'

She held it out without a word. She had been holding it in her hand.

'You see, officer!'

'I wasn't stealing of it. I 'adn't but borrowed it. I was going to putit back.'

'Stuff and nonsense! Borrow it, indeed! What for?'

'I--I wanted to look nice.'

The woman gave a short laugh. Constable Plimmer's face was a mere blockof wood, expressionless.

'And what about the money I've been missing? I suppose you'll say youonly borrowed that?'

'I never took no money.'

'Well, it's gone, and money doesn't go by itself. Take her to thepolice-station, officer.'

Constable Plimmer raised heavy eyes.

'You make a charge, ma'am?'

'Bless the man! Of course I make a charge. What did you think I askedyou to step in for?'

'Will you come along, miss?' said Constable Plimmer.

* * * * *

Out in the street the sun shone gaily down on peaceful Battersea. Itwas the hour when children walk abroad with their nurses; and from thegreen depths of the Park came the sound of happy voices. A catstretched itself in the sunshine and eyed the two as they passed withlazy content.

They walked in silence. Constable Plimmer was a man with a rigid senseof what was and what was not fitting behaviour in a policeman on duty:he aimed always at a machine-like impersonality. There were times whenit came hard, but he did his best. He strode on, his chin up and hiseyes averted. And beside him--

Well, she was not crying. That was something.

Round the corner, beautiful in light flannel, gay at both ends with anew straw hat and the yellowest shoes in South-West London, scented,curled, a prince among young men, stood Alf Brooks. He was feelingpiqued. When he said three o'clock, he meant three o'clock. It was nowthree-fifteen, and she had not appeared. Alf Brooks swore an impatientoath, and the thought crossed his mind, as it had sometimes crossed itbefore, that Ellen Brown was not the only girl in the world.

'Give her another five min--'

Ellen Brown, with escort, at that moment turned the corner.

Rage was the first emotion which the spectacle aroused in Alf Brooks.Girls who kept a fellow waiting about while they fooled around withpolicemen were no girls for him. They could understand once and for allthat he was a man who could pick and choose.

And then an electric shock set the world dancing mistily before hiseyes. This policeman was wearing his belt; he was on duty. And Ellen'sface was not the face of a girl strolling with the Force for pleasure.

His heart stopped, and then began to race. His cheeks flushed a duskycrimson. His jaw fell, and a prickly warmth glowed in the parts abouthis spine.

'Goo'!'

His fingers sought his collar.

'Crumbs!'

He was hot all over.

'Goo' Lor'! She's been pinched!'

He tugged at his collar. It was choking him.

Alf Brooks did not show up well in the first real crisis which life hadforced upon him. That must be admitted. Later, when it was over, and hehad leisure for self-examination, he admitted it to himself. But eventhen he excused himself by asking Space in a blustering manner whatelse he could ha' done. And if the question did not bring much balm tohis soul at the first time of asking, it proved wonderfully soothing onconstant repetition. He repeated it at intervals for the next two days,and by the end of that time his cure was complete. On the third morninghis 'Milk--oo--oo' had regained its customary carefree ring, and he wasfeeling that he had acted in difficult circumstances in the onlypossible manner.

Consider. He was Alf Brooks, well known and respected in theneighbourhood; a singer in the choir on Sundays; owner of a milk-walkin the most fashionable part of Battersea; to all practical purposes apublic man. Was he to recognize, in broad daylight and in open street,a girl who walked with a policeman because she had to, a malefactor, agirl who had been pinched?

He hurried on. He was conscious of a curious feeling that somebody wasjust going to kick him, but he dared not look round.

* * * * *

Constable Plimmer eyed the middle distance with an earnest gaze. Hisface was redder than ever. Beneath his blue tunic strange emotions wereat work. Something seemed to be filling his throat. He tried to swallowit.

He stopped in his stride. The girl glanced up at him in a kind of dull,questioning way. Their eyes met for the first time that afternoon, andit seemed to Constable Plimmer that whatever it was that wasinterfering with the inside of his throat had grown larger, and moreunmanageable.

There was the misery of the stricken animal in her gaze. He had seenwomen look like that in Whitechapel. The woman to whom, indirectly, heowed his broken nose had looked like that. As his hand had fallen onthe collar of the man who was kicking her to death, he had seen hereyes. They were Ellen's eyes, as she stood there now--tortured,crushed, yet uncomplaining.

Constable Plimmer looked at Ellen, and Ellen looked at ConstablePlimmer. Down the street some children were playing with a dog. In oneof the flats a woman began to sing.

'Go on,' he growled. 'Hop it. Tell him it was all a joke. I'll explainat the station.'

Understanding seemed to come to her slowly.

'Do you mean I'm to go?'

'Yes.'

'What do you mean? You aren't going to take me to the station?'

'No.'

She stared at him. Then, suddenly, she broke down,

'He wouldn't look at me. He was ashamed of me. He pretended not to seeme.'

She leaned against the wall, her back shaking.

'Well, run after him, and tell him it was all--'

'No, no, no.'

Constable Plimmer looked morosely at the side-walk. He kicked it

She turned. Her eyes were red, but she was no longer crying. Her chinhad a brave tilt.

'I couldn't--not after what he did. Let's go along. I--I don't care.'

She looked at him curiously.

'Were you really going to have let me go?'

Constable Plimmer nodded. He was aware of her eyes searching his face,but he did not meet them.

'Why?'

He did not answer.

'What would have happened to you, if you had have done?'

Constable Plimmer's scowl was of the stuff of which nightmares aremade. He kicked the unoffending side-walk with an increasedviciousness.

'Dismissed the Force,' he said curtly.

'And sent to prison, too, I shouldn't wonder.'

'Maybe.'

He heard her draw a deep breath, and silence fell upon them again. Thedog down the road had stopped barking. The woman in the flat hadstopped singing. They were curiously alone.

'Would you have done all that for me?' she said.

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'Because I don't think you ever did it. Stole that money, I mean. Northe brooch, neither.'

'Was that all?'

'What do you mean--all?'

'Was that the only reason?'

He swung round on her, almost threateningly.

'No,' he said hoarsely. 'No, it wasn't, and you know it wasn't. Well,if you want it, you can have it. It was because I love you. There! NowI've said it, and now you can go on and laugh at me as much as youwant.'

'I'm not laughing,' she said soberly.

'You think I'm a fool!'

'No, I don't.'

'I'm nothing to you. _He's_ the fellow you're stuck on.'

She gave a little shudder.

'No.'

'What do you mean?'

'I've changed.' She paused. 'I think I shall have changed more by thetime I come out.'

'Come out?'

'Come out of prison.'

'You're not going to prison.'

'Yes, I am.'

'I won't take you.'

'Yes, you will. Think I'm going to let you get yourself in trouble likethat, to get me out of a fix? Not much.'

'You hop it, like a good girl.'

'Not me.'

He stood looking at her like a puzzled bear.

'They can't eat me.'

'They'll cut off all of your hair.'

'D'you like my hair?'

'Yes.'

'Well, it'll grow again.'

'Don't stand talking. Hop it.'

'I won't. Where's the station?'

'Next street.'

'Well, come along, then.'

* * * * *

The blue glass lamp of the police-station came into sight, and for aninstant she stopped. Then she was walking on again, her chin tilted.But her voice shook a little as she spoke.

'I wonder if--I mean it'll be pretty lonely where I'm going--I wonderif--What I mean is, it would be rather a lark, when I come out, if Iwas to find a pal waiting for me to say "Hallo".'

Constable Plimmer braced his ample feet against the stones, and turnedpurple.

'Miss,' he said, 'I'll be there, if I have to sit up all night. Thefirst thing you'll see when they open the doors is a great, ugly,red-faced copper with big feet and a broken nose. And if you'll say"Hallo" to him when he says "Hallo" to you, he'll be as pleased asPunch and as proud as a duke. And, miss'--he clenched his hands tillthe nails hurt the leathern flesh--'and, miss, there's just one thingmore I'd like to say. You'll be having a good deal of time to yourselffor awhile; you'll be able to do a good bit of thinking without anyoneto disturb you; and what I'd like you to give your mind to, if youdon't object, is just to think whether you can't forget thatnarrow-chested, God-forsaken blighter who treated you so mean, and gethalf-way fond of someone who knows jolly well you're the only girlthere is.'

She looked past him at the lamp which hung, blue and forbidding, overthe station door.

'How long'll I get?' she said. 'What will they give me? Thirty days?'

He nodded.

'It won't take me as long as that,' she said. 'I say, what do peoplecall you?--people who are fond of you, I mean?--Eddie or Ted?'

A SEA OF TROUBLES

Mr Meggs's mind was made up. He was going to commit suicide.

There had been moments, in the interval which had elapsed between thefirst inception of the idea and his present state of fixeddetermination, when he had wavered. In these moments he had debated,with Hamlet, the question whether it was nobler in the mind to suffer,or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them. Butall that was over now. He was resolved.

Mr Meggs's point, the main plank, as it were, in his suicidal platform,was that with him it was beside the question whether or not it wasnobler to suffer in the mind. The mind hardly entered into it at all.What he had to decide was whether it was worth while putting up anylonger with the perfectly infernal pain in his stomach. For Mr Meggswas a martyr to indigestion. As he was also devoted to the pleasures ofthe table, life had become for him one long battle, in which, whateverhappened, he always got the worst of it.

He was sick of it. He looked back down the vista of the years, andfound therein no hope for the future. One after the other all thepatent medicines in creation had failed him. Smith's Supreme DigestivePellets--he had given them a more than fair trial. Blenkinsop's LiquidLife-Giver--he had drunk enough of it to float a ship. Perkins'sPremier Pain-Preventer, strongly recommended by the sword-swallowinglady at Barnum and Bailey's--he had wallowed in it. And so on down thelist. His interior organism had simply sneered at the lot of them.

'Death, where is thy sting?' thought Mr Meggs, and forthwith began tomake his preparations.

Those who have studied the matter say that the tendency to commitsuicide is greatest among those who have passed their fifty-fifth year,and that the rate is twice as great for unoccupied males as foroccupied males. Unhappy Mr Meggs, accordingly, got it, so to speak,with both barrels. He was fifty-six, and he was perhaps the mostunoccupied adult to be found in the length and breadth of the UnitedKingdom. He toiled not, neither did he spin. Twenty years before, anunexpected legacy had placed him in a position to indulge a naturaltaste for idleness to the utmost. He was at that time, as regards hisprofessional life, a clerk in a rather obscure shipping firm. Out ofoffice hours he had a mild fondness for letters, which took the form ofmeaning to read right through the hundred best books one day, butactually contenting himself with the daily paper and an occasionalmagazine.

Such was Mr Meggs at thirty-six. The necessity for working for a livingand a salary too small to permit of self-indulgence among the moreexpensive and deleterious dishes on the bill of fare had up to thattime kept his digestion within reasonable bounds. Sometimes he hadtwinges; more often he had none.

Then came the legacy, and with it Mr Meggs let himself go. He leftLondon and retired to his native village, where, with a French cook anda series of secretaries to whom he dictated at long intervalsoccasional paragraphs of a book on British Butterflies on which heimagined himself to be at work, he passed the next twenty years. Hecould afford to do himself well, and he did himself extremely well.Nobody urged him to take exercise, so he took no exercise. Nobodywarned him of the perils of lobster and welsh rabbits to a man ofsedentary habits, for it was nobody's business to warn him. On thecontrary, people rather encouraged the lobster side of his character,for he was a hospitable soul and liked to have his friends dine withhim. The result was that Nature, as is her wont, laid for him, and gothim. It seemed to Mr Meggs that he woke one morning to find himself achronic dyspeptic. That was one of the hardships of his position, tohis mind. The thing seemed to hit him suddenly out of a blue sky. Onemoment, all appeared to be peace and joy; the next, a lively andirritable wild-cat with red-hot claws seemed somehow to have introduceditself into his interior.

So Mr Meggs decided to end it.

In this crisis of his life the old methodical habits of his youthreturned to him. A man cannot be a clerk in even an obscure firm ofshippers for a great length of time without acquiring system, and MrMeggs made his preparations calmly and with a forethought worthy of abetter cause.

And so we find him, one glorious June morning, seated at his desk,ready for the end.

Outside, the sun beat down upon the orderly streets of the village.Dogs dozed in the warm dust. Men who had to work went about their toilmoistly, their minds far away in shady public-houses.

But Mr Meggs, in his study, was cool both in mind and body.

Before him, on the desk, lay six little slips of paper. They werebank-notes, and they represented, with the exception of a few pounds,his entire worldly wealth. Beside them were six letters, six envelopes,and six postage stamps. Mr Meggs surveyed them calmly.

He would not have admitted it, but he had had a lot of fun writingthose letters. The deliberation as to who should be his heirs hadoccupied him pleasantly for several days, and, indeed, had taken hismind off his internal pains at times so thoroughly that he hadfrequently surprised himself in an almost cheerful mood. Yes, he wouldhave denied it, but it had been great sport sitting in his arm-chair,thinking whom he should pick out from England's teeming millions tomake happy with his money. All sorts of schemes had passed through hismind. He had a sense of power which the mere possession of the moneyhad never given him. He began to understand why millionaires make freakwills. At one time he had toyed with the idea of selecting someone atrandom from the London Directory and bestowing on him all he had tobequeath. He had only abandoned the scheme when it occurred to him thathe himself would not be in a position to witness the recipient'sstunned delight. And what was the good of starting a thing like that,if you were not to be in at the finish?

Sentiment succeeded whimsicality. His old friends of the office--thosewere the men to benefit. What good fellows they had been! Some weredead, but he still kept intermittently in touch with half a dozen ofthem. And--an important point--he knew their present addresses.

This point was important, because Mr Meggs had decided not to leave awill, but to send the money direct to the beneficiaries. He knew whatwills were. Even in quite straightforward circumstances they often madetrouble. There had been some slight complication about his own legacytwenty years ago. Somebody had contested the will, and before the thingwas satisfactorily settled the lawyers had got away with about twentyper cent of the whole. No, no wills. If he made one, and then killedhimself, it might be upset on a plea of insanity. He knew of norelative who might consider himself entitled to the money, but therewas the chance that some remote cousin existed; and then the comradesof his youth might fail to collect after all.

He declined to run the risk. Quietly and by degrees he had sold out thestocks and shares in which his fortune was invested, and deposited themoney in his London bank. Six piles of large notes, dividing the totalinto six equal parts; six letters couched in a strain of reminiscentpathos and manly resignation; six envelopes, legibly addressed; sixpostage-stamps; and that part of his preparations was complete. Helicked the stamps and placed them on the envelopes; took the notes andinserted them in the letters; folded the letters and thrust them intothe envelopes; sealed the envelopes; and unlocking the drawer of hisdesk produced a small, black, ugly-looking bottle.

He opened the bottle and poured the contents into a medicine-glass.

It had not been without considerable thought that Mr Meggs had decidedupon the method of his suicide. The knife, the pistol, the rope--theyhad all presented their charms to him. He had further examined themerits of drowning and of leaping to destruction from a height.

There were flaws in each. Either they were painful, or else they weremessy. Mr Meggs had a tidy soul, and he revolted from the thought ofspoiling his figure, as he would most certainly do if he drownedhimself; or the carpet, as he would if he used the pistol; or thepavement--and possibly some innocent pedestrian, as must infalliblyoccur should he leap off the Monument. The knife was out of thequestion. Instinct told him that it would hurt like the very dickens.

No; poison was the thing. Easy to take, quick to work, and on the wholerather agreeable than otherwise.

Mr Meggs hid the glass behind the inkpot and rang the bell.

'Has Miss Pillenger arrived?' he inquired of the servant.

'She has just come, sir.'

'Tell her that I am waiting for her here.'

Jane Pillenger was an institution. Her official position was that ofprivate secretary and typist to Mr Meggs. That is to say, on the rareoccasions when Mr Meggs's conscience overcame his indolence to theextent of forcing him to resume work on his British Butterflies, it wasto Miss Pillenger that he addressed the few rambling and incoherentremarks which constituted his idea of a regular hard, slogging spell ofliterary composition. When he sank back in his chair, speechless andexhausted like a Marathon runner who has started his sprint a mile ortwo too soon, it was Miss Pillenger's task to unscramble her shorthandnotes, type them neatly, and place them in their special drawer in thedesk.

Miss Pillenger was a wary spinster of austere views, uncertain age, anda deep-rooted suspicion of men--a suspicion which, to do an abused sexjustice, they had done nothing to foster. Men had always been almostcoldly correct in their dealings with Miss Pillenger. In her twentyyears of experience as a typist and secretary she had never had torefuse with scorn and indignation so much as a box of chocolates fromany of her employers. Nevertheless, she continued to be icily on herguard. The clenched fist of her dignity was always drawn back, ready toswing on the first male who dared to step beyond the bounds ofprofessional civility.

Such was Miss Pillenger. She was the last of a long line of unprotectedEnglish girlhood which had been compelled by straitened circumstancesto listen for hire to the appallingly dreary nonsense which Mr Meggshad to impart on the subject of British Butterflies. Girls had come,and girls had gone, blondes, ex-blondes, brunettes, ex-brunettes,near-blondes, near-brunettes; they had come buoyant, full of hope andlife, tempted by the lavish salary which Mr Meggs had found himselfafter a while compelled to pay; and they had dropped off, one afteranother, like exhausted bivalves, unable to endure the crushing boredomof life in the village which had given Mr Meggs to the world. For MrMeggs's home-town was no City of Pleasure. Remove the Vicar'smagic-lantern and the try-your-weight machine opposite the post office,and you practically eliminated the temptations to tread the primrosepath. The only young men in the place were silent, gaping youths, atwhom lunacy commissioners looked sharply and suspiciously when theymet. The tango was unknown, and the one-step. The only form of danceextant--and that only at the rarest intervals--was a sort of polka notunlike the movements of a slightly inebriated boxing kangaroo. MrMeggs's secretaries and typists gave the town one startled, horrifiedglance, and stampeded for London like frightened ponies.

Not so Miss Pillenger. She remained. She was a business woman, and itwas enough for her that she received a good salary. For five pounds aweek she would have undertaken a post as secretary and typist to aPolar Expedition. For six years she had been with Mr Meggs, anddoubtless she looked forward to being with him at least six years more.

Perhaps it was the pathos of this thought which touched Mr Meggs, asshe sailed, notebook in hand, through the doorway of the study. Here,he told himself, was a confiding girl, all unconscious of impendingdoom, relying on him as a daughter relies on her father. He was gladthat he had not forgotten Miss Pillenger when he was making hispreparations.

He had certainly not forgotten Miss Pillenger. On his desk beside theletters lay a little pile of notes, amounting in all to five hundredpounds--her legacy.

Miss Pillenger was always business-like. She sat down in her chair,opened her notebook, moistened her pencil, and waited expectantly forMr Meggs to dear his throat and begin work on the butterflies. She wassurprised when, instead of frowning, as was his invariable practicewhen bracing himself for composition, he bestowed upon her a sweet,slow smile.

All that was maidenly and defensive in Miss Pillenger leaped to armsunder that smile. It ran in and out among her nerve-centres. It hadbeen long in arriving, this moment of crisis, but here it undoubtedlywas at last. After twenty years an employer was going to court disasterby trying to flirt with her.

Mr Meggs went on smiling. You cannot classify smiles. Nothing lendsitself so much to a variety of interpretations as a smile. Mr Meggsthought he was smiling the sad, tender smile of a man who, knowinghimself to be on the brink of the tomb, bids farewell to a faithfulemployee. Miss Pillenger's view was that he was smiling like anabandoned old rip who ought to have been ashamed of himself.

'No, Miss Pillenger,' said Mr Meggs, 'I shall not work this morning. Ishall want you, if you will be so good, to post these six letters forme.'

Miss Pillenger took the letters. Mr Meggs surveyed her tenderly.

'Miss Pillenger, you have been with me a long time now. Six years, isit not? Six years. Well, well. I don't think I have ever made you alittle present, have I?'

'You give me a good salary.'

'Yes, but I want to give you something more. Six years is a long time.I have come to regard you with a different feeling from that which theordinary employer feels for his secretary. You and I have workedtogether for six long years. Surely I may be permitted to give you sometoken of my appreciation of your fidelity.' He took the pile of notes.'These are for you, Miss Pillenger.'

He rose and handed them to her. He eyed her for a moment with all thesentimentality of a man whose digestion has been out of order for overtwo decades. The pathos of the situation swept him away. He bent overMiss Pillenger, and kissed her on the forehead.

Smiles excepted, there is nothing so hard to classify as a kiss. MrMeggs's notion was that he kissed Miss Pillenger much as some greatgeneral, wounded unto death, might have kissed his mother, his sister,or some particularly sympathetic aunt; Miss Pillenger's view, differingsubstantially from this, may be outlined in her own words.

'Ah!' she cried, as, dealing Mr Meggs's conveniently placed jaw a blowwhich, had it landed an inch lower down, might have knocked him out,she sprang to her feet. 'How dare you! I've been waiting for this MrMeggs. I have seen it in your eye. I have expected it. Let me tell youthat I am not at all the sort of girl with whom it is safe to behavelike that. I can protect myself. I am only a working-girl--'

Mr Meggs, who had fallen back against the desk as a stricken pugilistfalls on the ropes, pulled himself together to protest.

'Indeed! Nothing was farther from your mind! You give me money, youshower your vile kisses on me, but nothing was farther from your mindthan the obvious interpretation of such behaviour!' Before coming to MrMeggs, Miss Pillenger had been secretary to an Indiana novelist. Shehad learned style from the master. 'Now that you have gone too far, youare frightened at what you have done. You well may be, Mr Meggs. I amonly a working-girl--'

'Miss Pillenger, I implore you--'

'Silence! I am only a working-girl--'

A wave of mad fury swept over Mr Meggs. The shock of the blow and stillmore of the frightful ingratitude of this horrible woman nearly madehim foam at the mouth.

Miss Pillenger was not entirely sorry to obey the request. Mr Meggs'ssudden fury had startled and frightened her. So long as she could endthe scene victorious, she was anxious to withdraw.

'Yes, I will go,' she said, with dignity, as she opened the door. 'Nowthat you have revealed yourself in your true colours, Mr Meggs, thishouse is no fit place for a wor--'

She caught her employer's eye, and vanished hastily.

Mr Meggs paced the room in a ferment. He had been shaken to his core bythe scene. He boiled with indignation. That his kind thoughts shouldhave been so misinterpreted--it was too much. Of all ungrateful worlds,this world was the most--

He stopped suddenly in his stride, partly because his shin had struck achair, partly because an idea had struck his mind.

Hopping madly, he added one more parallel between himself and Hamlet bysoliloquizing aloud.

'I'll be hanged if I commit suicide,' he yelled.

And as he spoke the words a curious peace fell on him, as on a man whohas awakened from a nightmare. He sat down at the desk. What an idiothe had been ever to contemplate self-destruction. What could haveinduced him to do it? By his own hand to remove himself, merely inorder that a pack of ungrateful brutes might wallow in his money--itwas the scheme of a perfect fool.

He wouldn't commit suicide. Not if he knew it. He would stick on andlaugh at them. And if he did have an occasional pain inside, what ofthat? Napoleon had them, and look at him. He would be blowed if hecommitted suicide.

With the fire of a new resolve lighting up his eyes, he turned to seizethe six letters and rifle them of their contents.

They were gone.

It took Mr Meggs perhaps thirty seconds to recollect where they hadgone to, and then it all came back to him. He had given them to thedemon Pillenger, and, if he did not overtake her and get them back, shewould mail them.

Of all the mixed thoughts which seethed in Mr Meggs's mind at thatmoment, easily the most prominent was the reflection that from hisfront door to the post office was a walk of less than five minutes.

* * * * *

Miss Pillenger walked down the sleepy street in the June sunshine,boiling, as Mr Meggs had done, with indignation. She, too, had beenshaken to the core. It was her intention to fulfil her duty by postingthe letters which had been entrusted to her, and then to quit for everthe service of one who, for six years a model employer, had at lastforgotten himself and showed his true nature.

Her meditations were interrupted by a hoarse shout in her rear; and,turning, she perceived the model employer running rapidly towards her.His face was scarlet, his eyes wild, and he wore no hat.

Miss Pillenger's mind worked swiftly. She took in the situation in aflash. Unrequited, guilty love had sapped Mr Meggs's reason, and shewas to be the victim of his fury. She had read of scores of similarcases in the newspapers. How little she had ever imagined that shewould be the heroine of one of these dramas of passion.

She looked for one brief instant up and down the street. Nobody was insight. With a loud cry she began to run.

'Stop!'

It was the fierce voice of her pursuer. Miss Pillenger increased tothird speed. As she did so, she had a vision of headlines.

'Stop!' roared Mr Meggs.

'UNREQUITED PASSION MADE THIS MAN MURDERER,' thought Miss Pillenger.

'Stop!'

'CRAZED WITH LOVE HE SLAYS BEAUTIFUL BLONDE,' flashed out in letters ofcrimson on the back of Miss Pillenger's mind.

'Stop!'

'SPURNED, HE STABS HER THRICE.'

To touch the ground at intervals of twenty yards or so--that was theideal she strove after. She addressed herself to it with all thestrength of her powerful mind.

In London, New York, Paris, and other cities where life is brisk, thespectacle of a hatless gentleman with a purple face pursuing hissecretary through the streets at a rapid gallop would, of course, haveexcited little, if any, remark. But in Mr Meggs's home-town events wereof rarer occurrence. The last milestone in the history of his nativeplace had been the visit, two years before, of Bingley's StupendousCircus, which had paraded along the main street on its way to the nexttown, while zealous members of its staff visited the back premises ofthe houses and removed all the washing from the lines. Since then deep